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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083119">Striketober 2020</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinite_Fandoms/pseuds/Infinite_Fandoms'>Infinite_Fandoms</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 02:13:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,999</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27083119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinite_Fandoms/pseuds/Infinite_Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hello All,</p><p>I'm new to AO3 (but used to be on FF.net). I haven't written in a few years, but Striketober piqued my interest, and I couldn't resist. I tried to keep each story around 100 words, but some went over. I'm making each story tie together into a cohesive whole.</p><p>I couldn't resist not writing about my new favorite Ship (Strike/Robin). Hope you enjoy the story!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Striketober | Cormoran Strike Fictober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Is that even possible?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It seems like everything was dissolved except for their teeth,” said Strike as he fished what was left of human remains out of the muddy pig pen.</p><p>“Is that even possible?” asked Robin aghast.</p><p>“It absolutely is possible. The digestive tract in pigs can dissolve everything; bone, hair, muscle tissue. Everything except these,” Strike said as he opened his large palm, covered in brown sludge, to show Robin the 6 pearlescent teeth.</p><p>“That’s terrible,” Robin shuttered. “Any way to make an ID with just those 6?”</p><p>“You should be able to extract DNA out of this, yeah. I’ll have to turn them over to Wardle, so he can get them processed through the crime lab though.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Want some company?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Robin walked into the pub Strike was already at least 4 pints in. She shook her head, but couldn’t help the corners of her lips turning upward into a grin.</p>
<p>“Want some company?” she asked walking up to his table; his right leg propped up on a nearby chair for support.</p>
<p>“Rob’n!” Strike exclaimed happily. “I’d love it if you’d join me,” he said as he moved his leg off the chair so she could sit down.</p>
<p>“Want a pint?” Strike asked her. “It’s on me!”</p>
<p>“Are we celebrating?”</p>
<p>“We are! Wardle got an ID on the teeth,” Strike told her blearily.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. It sounded better in my head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Beynon Rivers. That’s the name of the bloke you found at the pig farm,” Wardle told Strike and Robin down at the police station the following day.</p>
<p>Strike looked grumpier than usual, with his hair refusing to lie flat, and his general look of dishevelment.</p>
<p>“23, white male, no criminal history,” Wardle went on. “He’s originally from Wales, moved to England with his Mum when he was 12. He went back to Wales for University, so why he’s here now?” Wardle said to no one in particular while scanning the white board with Beynon’s picture on it.</p>
<p>“Maybe he came for the bacon butties?” Strike chuckled.</p>
<p>Robin and DI Wardle both turned their heads and gave him a pointed look of disapproval.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Strike grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “It sounded better in my head.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Where does it hurt?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Denmark Street was bustling with people today</em>, Robin thought as she stared out the window of the outer office down into the busy street below.</p>
<p>The banging of the inner office door flying open pulled Robin out of her head and into reality.</p>
<p>“Do you have any paracetamol?” Strike asked looking even more grumpy than at the police station.</p>
<p>“Awww….where does it hurt?” Robin asked him with a smirk.</p>
<p>“My head is killing me,” Strike said sitting down on the famous farting couch, putting his head into his hands.</p>
<p>Robin rummaged through her desk and appeared in front of Strike a minute later with a big glass of water and two paracetamol tablets in the palm of her hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Don't move</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Strike, we’ve been pouring over these case files for weeks. Let’s take a break, huh? Kebabs? Chips?” Robin asked. “I’m starved!”</p><p>Strike looked up at her; files, case notes, crime scene photos, and forensic reports taking up real estate on every square inch of his desk. “What?” he asked.</p><p>“Food,” Robin repeated again, getting up and slipping into her coat. “I’m hungry. Would you like to go down to the pub with me? Or The Wolseley?”</p><p>“Wait. Don’t move,” Strike said, suddenly very serious, standing up from behind his desk.</p><p>He crept closer to her with his forefinger over his lips. The universal sign to not make a sound.</p><p>With one quick sweeping motion he swatted her shoulder with the back of his hand.</p><p>“Oi!” Robin exclaimed gripping her shoulder. “What did you do that for?”</p><p>“You had a spider on your coat! I was only trying to help,” Strike said affronted. “Now, you were saying something about food? I’m starved.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Is it working?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It seems like we’re getting nowhere with this case,” Robin said exhaustedly, pushing her pile of case notes aside.</p>
<p>“It does feel like we’re getting bloody nowhere,” Strike agreed.</p>
<p>“Maybe we need to work a different angle?” Robin suggested. </p>
<p>“Maybe we need some coffees?” Strike suggested instead, heaving himself up and making his way to the kitchenette.</p>
<p>Robin laid her head down on the desk, thinking, and listening to Strike fumble about.</p>
<p>“Here,” she heard him say, and lifted her head off the desk.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” she offered, as he handed her a cup of plain black coffee.</p>
<p>They sipped their coffees in silence. Each thinking their own thoughts.</p>
<p>“Is it working? The coffee?” Strike asked Robin after a long stretch of silence.</p>
<p>“Actually,” Robin said, searching for a pen on her desk. “It is helping, and I’ve just thought of something.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Is something bothering you?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is something bothering you?” Strike asked Robin.</p><p>“I’m just…” Robin started; her brow furrowed in thought. “I’m just trying to figure out why a kid from University was at the pig farm to begin with.”</p><p>“I have a theory,” she continued after a brief silence.</p><p>“Let’s hear it then,” Strike encouraged.</p><p>“Well,” Robin said. “What do most 23 year old boys care about more than anything?”</p><p>“Sex, Drugs, Rock and Roll?” Strike offered.</p><p>“There doesn’t seem to be any indication that he was into drugs…or Rock and Roll,” Robin rolled her eyes. “But yes, I was thinking sex as well. What if he was lured there by a girl, or was dared to go down to ‘the creepy old pig farm’ by one of his mates?”</p><p>“One thing leads to another,” she goes on. “He sees something he’s not supposed to, or crosses the wrong guy, and….you know,” Robin finished lamely.</p><p>“I do know,” Strike nods his head approvingly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. I'm scared</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The glow of the streetlights and shops down on Denmark street illuminated the office with a blueish, almost telly-like, glow.</p>
<p>“It’s getting late,” Robin stretched. “And I’m getting worried. I’m scared, really. Scared we’re not going to solve this case, and poor Beynon’s Mum will never have closure.”</p>
<p>“Strike?” Robin asked.</p>
<p>But he was already fast asleep on his desk.</p>
<p>“Strike,” Robin repeated, trying to gently rouse him. “You can’t sleep on your desk.”</p>
<p>He lifted his head and looked up at her. Those striking blue eyes boring into her.</p>
<p>“Robin?” Strike asked groggily. “Robin, I’m knackered, and my leg hurts.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said gently. “Let’s get you upstairs to bed.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. I have to do this</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Excellent news!” Robin announced. “Beynon Rivers’ Mum finally contacted me for an interview. I know she’s been difficult, but she finally agreed. She even offered to meet me in London. We have to do it,” Robin insisted. “I have to do this.”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay,” Strike agreed. “Are you okay going it alone? I have to meet up with Barclay to go over some specifics of a case he’s working on.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Robin said enthusiastically busying herself with writing notes. “I am. I’ll interview her and be back before dinnertime. I know you don’t like it when I’m out alone at night.”</p>
<p>She finished scribbling down her notes, and stood before Strike, handing him the small sticky squares of papers.</p>
<p>“Here’s the information of where I’ll be, call if you need anything,” she grinned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Give me five minutes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin’s phone dinged and lit up with Strike’s name.</p><p>Her spirits lifted considerably. But anytime Robin’s phone lit up with Strike’s name on it prompted that response.</p><p>“<strong>I’m at The Tottenham. Can you meet me? I want to hear how the interview went.</strong>” the text read.</p><p>“<strong>Give me five minutes. X.</strong>” she text Strike back before immediately realizing she put yet another “kiss” in her message to him!</p><p><em> I really need to stop doing that</em>, she thought to herself.</p><p>She shoved her phone back deep in her pocket and pulled her coat collar up closer against her ears, walking faster towards The Tottenham.</p><p>Her phone dinged again.</p><p>“<strong>Thanks. See you soon. X.</strong>” was the response.</p><p>She smiled, and walked even faster.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Is everything okay?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is everything okay?” Strike asked Robin, knowing everything wasn’t okay. He knew that pensive look anywhere. She was thinking about the case. The human, empathetic, emotional aspects of the case. Ever Robin. His Robin, as everyone kept saying.</p><p>Robin sighed. “It’s just,” she paused, turning her wine glass round and round, but not actually drinking anything. “Beynon Rivers was just a normal college kid, in England for the upcoming Holidays to see his Mum. Nothing odd or suspicious about him at all. He just crossed the wrong people, doing the wrong things, at the wrong time. Scary really. How life can change in a fleeting moment like that. One minute you’re a kid visiting your Mum from University, the next you’re pig food.”</p><p>She looked up at him, “But I guess we both know about life changing forever in an instant, now, don’t we?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Don't flatter yourself</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh, come off it, Robin! Don’t be like that,” Strike chuckled as they made their way back from The Tottenham to Denmark Street. Strike lighting up a cigarette as they walked.</p><p>“No, listen,” Robin giggled, a little tipsy, having decided to drink some wine after all.</p><p>“If the hiring agency never sent me to you by mistake, I’d never be an investigator,” she carried on, her cheeks flushed pink with the wine and the cold.</p><p>“Well….what can I say?” Strike said between puffs. “I’m what you’d call ‘Serendipity’.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Cormoran,” Robin laughed again.</p><p>“But really,” she went on, a little more seriously this time. “I appreciate the trust you put into me and the opportunity to show you what I can do.”</p><p>Strike just shook his head and led her gently down the street towards the office.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Who told you that?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Slight Troubled Blood spoiler</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time they got back to the office Robin’s head was starting to ache.</p><p>“Do you mind if I lie down?” Robin asked, stretching out on the couch before Strike could answer while it omitted an offensive sound.</p><p>She closed her eyes.</p><p>Strike sat down at the desk, giving his leg a break, and started typing up case notes based on what Robin had reported back from the interview.</p><p>The tapping of keys was the only sound filling the office for quite a stretch.</p><p>“Do you still love Charlotte?” Robin asked with her eyes still closed, the wine making her feel braver than she normally would. Logically she knew better than to ask Strike about his personal life, especially not Charlotte.</p><p>“What? No, who told you that?” Strike asked with genuine disgust in his voice.</p><p>“No one,” Robin said quickly. “It’s just…never mind, it’s not my business.” She rolled over so her back was towards Strike.</p><p>“I changed my number so I never have to hear from Charlotte again. That woman was as toxic as you can get. I absolutely do not love her anymore,” Strike said with conviction and went back to typing.</p><p>Robin smiled to herself and fell asleep to the sound of typing keys.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. What are you smiling about?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What are you smiling about?” Robin asked Strike as she walked into the inner office with two mugs of steaming tea.</p><p>“Fanning Wilkerson,” he started. “That’s the name of the bloke whose family owns the pig farm. Seems like Mummy and Daddy passed away, but no one ever reported it, so it shows they’re still the owners of the farm. Good, upstanding people. No criminal record. Legitimate pig farm. No one would have known their estranged son took it over and started using the farm as a drug and firearms distribution center. Honestly, he probably killed his parents and fed them to the pigs himself.”</p><p>Strike stretched his arms out and laced his fingers behind his head. </p><p>“Fanning Wilkerson,” he continued. “48, white male, criminal record a mile long. Served in the British Army, but was dishonorably discharged when he got into a fight and beat one of his fellow comrades nearly to death in their bunks. The fellow put up a hell of a fight though. Wilkerson suffered bruised ribs, a black eye, and get this…” Strike paused to turn his computer monitor around to show her a picture of a bruised-up man, she assumed was Wilkerson.</p><p>“He got his left ear bit off, and no one was ever able to find it,” Strike said, smiling even wider.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Don't come in</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The glass in the door of the inner office rattled as someone knocked on the door far too hard.</p><p><em>Oh, bloody hell, go away,</em> Strike thought as he poured over his case files.</p><p>“Mr. Strike?” Pat’s voice rasped from behind the door. “Mr. Strike, I need you to sign this weeks’ time sheets.”</p><p>“Don’t come in, Pat,” Strike grumbled, as he scanned the room for his prosthesis. “I’ll be out in a few.”</p><p>He turned a full 360 in his desk chair before finding it leaned up against the wall.</p><p>“There you are, you bugger,” he said to it.</p><p>He scooted his chair over to the wall and fastened all the straps back to his stump.</p><p>It always pinches his skin when he first puts it on. It seems that will never go away, bloody thing. He winced, but the pinching sensation passed quickly, and he pushed himself out of the chair and stepped out of the inner office to go find Pat.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. What's in it for me?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What’s in it for me?” Shanker's brogue accent said in Strike’s ear over the mobile.</p><p>“Continued friendship with a nationally famous detective,” Strike concluded.</p><p>“Listen, mate,” Strike went on. “I just need you to look into a name for me, that’s all. Fanning Wilkerson. We already know he’s in the drug business. Just trying to get an idea of what Robin and I are getting ourselves into here.”</p><p>“Fine, but you owe me,” Shanker said after a pause. “But I’m mostly helping because I like Robin. She's not a tosser like you.”</p><p>“Well, jeeze, mate. Hurt a bloke’s feelings, why don’t ya?” Strike feigned hurt.</p><p>“Oh, Bunsen, the things I do for you,” Shanker cajoled. “I’ll call you in a few days with an update.”</p><p>And before Strike could thank him, he was already gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. I'll drive you there</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We have to go back up to the pig farm,” Strike said, rubbing a massive hand over his unshaven face.</p>
<p>“I’ll drive you there,” said Robin without preamble or hesitation.</p>
<p>“Are you sure? It’s going to take at least 5 hours driving to get up there,” Strike said pacing around the outer office. “Falstone is a bit of a way away. We’ll probably have to stay a night up there too. It’s unrealistic to imagine driving that far, investigating, and driving back to London the same day.”</p>
<p>“Of course I’m sure,” Robin said in exasperation. “And that’s fine if we have to stay over, it’s not like I have to rush home.”</p>
<p><em>Honestly, how many times are they going to have to go through this?</em> She thinks.</p>
<p>“I’ll get us a takeaway,” Robin continued. “After we eat, we can go to our respective homes, pack our bags, and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll pick you up here in the morning.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Isn't this what you wanted?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Acccck!” Strike sputtered. Spitting biscuits out the Land Rover window.</p><p>“What?!” Robin asked mortified. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” she asked handing Strike the box of digestive biscuits.</p><p>Strike examined the box while he chugged mouthfuls of water.</p><p>“These are ‘Cherry Bakewell’ flavour. I hate cherry!” he said after he swallowed several ounces of water.</p><p>“Well how was I bloody well supposed to know that?” Robin laughed. She laughed so hard tears were forming in her eyes.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” said Strike. “It’s not that funny. Quit it before you crash the bloody car and I lose another leg.”</p><p>But Robin couldn’t help it, and kept on laughing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Don't lie to me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’ve forgotten how secluded this place is,” Robin said scanning her head around looking for any sign of life outside of herself and Strike.</p>
<p>“Middle of bloody nowhere,” Strike agreed.</p>
<p>After driving for another 30 minutes with nothing but rolling green hills and an occasional dot of a farmhouse in the distance Robin’s phone chimed.</p>
<p>“<em>In 30 meters, turn right,</em>” the navigation announced.</p>
<p>“<em>In 15 meters, turn right,</em>” it updated shortly thereafter.</p>
<p>“<em>You have reached your destination,</em>” the robotic voice said.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t lie to me, you silly little gadget! You’ve got to be joking,” Robin said to her phone as she pulled into the gravel parking lot of what would be their lodging for the evening.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Is this really necessary?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Slight Troubled Blood spoiler</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is this really necessary?” Robin asked Strike as he worked on turning the sofa bed from sofa, to bed. “Honestly, just because they only had one room doesn’t mean we have to make a….a….a thing out of it. We’ve slept in the Land Rover before. It’s not a big deal.”</p><p>“Trust me, Ellacott,” Strike gritted as he struggled with the bars and springs of the stiff and slightly rusted sofa bed. </p><p>“Come, Cormoran, we’re working adult professionals, partners, and best mates. We can share a bed,” Robin insisted. “Plus, you’re going to sleep terribly on that thing and be in pain tomorrow, and I’m going to have to hear your whinging.” </p><p>“Really,” Strike carried on. “It’s,” he panted, the bars groaning under his force. “Fine”. The bars unexpectedly gave way with a loud screech, causing Strike to lose his balance and tumble backwards right onto his arse and whacking his right knee on the nearby dresser in the process.</p><p>“Owwww! FUCK!” Strike yelled, more in frustration and embarrassment than from pain.</p><p>“You see!” Robin scolded. “Please, just stop,” she added more gently. “Are you okay? Let us get you onto the bed.”</p><p>With as much dignity as he could muster, Strike accepted Robin’s help up, and agreed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Look away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I’m starved,” Strike announced, his stomach rumbling in agreement. “Practically wasting away over here. Want to walk across the parking lot to the little diner and get somethin’ to eat?”</p>
<p>“Sounds good to me, I’m starved as well,” Robin replied. “It’s just….” She paused.</p>
<p>“Wot?” Strike asked, already sliding his arms into his coat.</p>
<p>“It’s just…..do you mind if you look away?” Robin asked Strike with as much nonchalance as she could. “Just while I change into my jumper? It’s getting colder out now with the sun setting.” </p>
<p>“O’course,” Strike said as he turned his back towards her.</p>
<p>The sudden accelerated thudding in his chest and drumming of blood pounding in his ears caught him by surprise.</p>
<p>He took a deep breath to try to calm himself.</p>
<p>He couldn’t help but catch a reflection of her in the window. He briefly registered her dark black bra, before casting his eyes downwards as to respect his partner’s privacy.</p>
<p>Neither the breathing, nor the glimpse of black lace, did anything to slow his heart rate or quell his thoughts from drifting back into familiar, but dangerous, territory.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Does this help?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“These chips are bloody awful,” Strike said wrinkling his nose as he holds up the sagging, sad excuse of a chip between his fingers for Robin’s perusal.</p>
<p>“Here,” Robin offered helpfully, grabbing for the bottle of ketchup on the table. “Does this help?” she questioned as she pounds the thick red paste, out of the hard glass bottle, onto a plate for him.</p>
<p>“It’s gotta be better than what ever this” - he gestures vaguely at the pile of pale yellow wedges - “is.”</p>
<p>“Thanks,” he added, sliding the small plate of ketchup closer to him.</p>
<p>“You’re quite welcome,” Robin smiled at him, delighted in easing his woes.</p>
<p>“I think we deserve a treat,” Robin went on, as Strike shoved ketchup laden chips into his mouth.</p>
<p>“Lick wot?” Strike inquired though a mouthful.</p>
<p>“Like,” Robin nudged closer to him, like she wants to tell him a secret. “Like a large slice of strawberry cheesecake. To share of course. I know you like strawberries.” </p>
<p>“Robin Venetia Ellacott,” Strike said clearly now that he’d swallowed his food. “Have I mentioned that you’re my best mate?!” He smiled at her. “Yeah, let’s get cheesecake!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Are you warm enough?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Good thing we don’t have to walk back very far,” Robin shuttered, her breath fogging out in front of her.</p><p>“Are you cold?” Strike asked Robin, already slipping out of his coat. “We are nearly to Scotland after all, it can get much colder up here than down in London.”</p><p>“It’s not so bad,” Robin started.</p><p>“No, no,” Strike insisted. “Please,” he added, opening his coat wide for her.</p><p>The large woolen coat, outstretched just for her, was too inviting to resist.</p><p>“Won’t you be cold?” she asked, concerned for his comfort.</p><p>“I run warm,” Strike said as he wrapped her up in his too-big-for-her coat.</p><p>The residual warmth and scent of him enveloped her immediately. So comforting. Like coming home. </p><p>“There,” Strike said with a smile. “Are you warm enough?” he asked giving her arms a rub to generate some added heat.</p><p>“Thank you,” Robin smiled back. “Much better now.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. What time is it?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Strike’s phone let out three shrill rings before it woke both him and Robin up.</p>
<p>“What the bloody hell?” Strike cursed, fumbling around in the dark for his phone.</p>
<p>“What time is it?” Robin asked sleepily, poking her strawberry blonde head up from under the duvet.</p>
<p>“It’s Shanker,” Strike told Robin as he clicked the little green circle to answer the mobile.</p>
<p>“Strike,” he said into his phone. “And you better have a damn good reason to be calling me at nearly 3 o’clock in the mornin’. You’ve woken Robin!”</p>
<p>“Ooohhhhh, did I now?” Shanker prodded. </p>
<p>“What do you want, Shanker?” Strike grumbled like a thunderstorm.</p>
<p>“I was calling you with an update on Fanning Wilkerson like YOU asked me to, you arse,” Shanker continued.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. How long was I asleep?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun streaming in through the partially opened blinds warmed Strike’s face.</p>
<p>He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes to rub away any sleep and stretched.</p>
<p>For a moment he didn’t recognize where he was, but he did recognize it must be late in the day for the sun to be hitting his face from this angle.</p>
<p>He sat up in bed and noticed Robin curled up in the chair next to the window, one leg tucked under her, lost in a book.</p>
<p>“How long was I asleep?” He asked thickly. “Didn’t realize it was so late, sorry bout that.”</p>
<p>Robin looked up and smiled at him. </p>
<p>“Oh, no worries at all,” she struck cheerily. “I’ve just been catching up on my reading and enjoying some tea. Do you want any?”</p>
<p>“Sure, that’d be lovely,” Strike replied, trying to match her cheery tone.</p>
<p>He lied back down, his head resting on the thin hotel room pillows, and thought about how lovely it was indeed to wake up to Robin and tea.</p>
<p>He didn’t mind this one single bit.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Do you want me to stop?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Shanker says he’s a really dangerous guy,” Strike informed Robin as the Land Rover bumped down the poorly paved roads towards the pig farm. “Maybe we should call in the locals, that’s all I’m saying.”</p>
<p>“Do you want me to stop?” Robin asked Strike, gently releasing her foot off of the accelerator, slowing the Land Rover considerably. “Really? After we’ve come all this way, and have done all this work?”</p>
<p>“Of course I don’t want you to stop,” he tried reasonably. “All I’m saying is, maybe we should consider backup.”</p>
<p>Robin brought the car back up to speed and pondered in thought, while Strike stared out the passenger side window, lost in his own thoughts.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Robin relented a couple of silent minutes later. “You’re right. Better safe than sorry.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. I can't reach it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I can’t reach it,” Robin moaned, standing on her tippy toes trying to close the hatch of the land rover.</p>
<p>Strike enjoyed the sight of her exposed midriff, her creamy skin, and slightly flushed face as she strained to reach the hatch.</p>
<p>“Hold on, hold on,” Strike mumbled with a lit cigarette between his lips.</p>
<p>He easily reached up and closed the hatch for her. A smug smirk forming on his face.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t start,” said Robin, unable to stop her own smirk from forming, as she straightened out her jumper.</p>
<p>“I didn’t say anything,” he defended, putting his hands in the air under mock surrender.</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes at him as he pulled the cigarette from his lips and flicked some ash onto the ground.</p>
<p>They both stared out into the distance, at the expanse of farmland, with nothing in sight; say for a few dots of pigs.</p>
<p>Strike dragged greedily on his cigarette, enjoying the rush of nicotine.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said after he sucked it down to the butt and tossed it to the ground. “Guess it can’t hurt to look around while we wait for backup?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Don't freak out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The trek up the stone steps seemed to put Strike out of breath.</p>
<p>“Why the bloody hell does there always have to be stairs?” Strike complained, breathing faster than usual. “My bloody leg is smarting. Blasted dresser. Blasted, stupid, bloody sofa bed.” </p>
<p>“Shhhhh...” Robin chastised him. “Wilkerson very well may be on the farm right now.”</p>
<p>“I bloody well know,” Strike hissed back.</p>
<p>Robin gave him a stony look and he apologized.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just my leg, and these damn steps!”</p>
<p>“It’s okay, just, please be quiet,” Robin crept forward.</p>
<p>They both heard the distinct crack of a stick breaking underfoot and dove behind the stone wall so they wouldn’t be seen.</p>
<p>“Don’t freak out,” Robin whispered as quietly as she could. Unsure if it was more for Strike’s benefit or to reassure herself. She drew a long, slow, deep breath; steeling herself to peek out from behind the stone wall.</p>
<p>But there was already a shadow looming behind them. One with a missing left ear.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. You scared the shit out of me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Robin awoke in a hospital room. Bright white fluorescent lights shining in her eyes, and Strike’s hand in hers.</p>
<p>She blinked furiously trying to get her eyes to adjust to the harsh light.</p>
<p>She stirred, her head throbbing, and felt Strike let go of her hand.</p>
<p>“Robin?” Strike asked tentatively. “Robin, can you hear me?”</p>
<p>She groaned and rolled over on her side. Her blue-grey eyes searching for his sky-blue ones.</p>
<p>“You scared the shit out of me, Ellacott,” he breathed in relief once her eyes found his.</p>
<p>“What happened?” asked Robin, bringing her hand to her forehead. “My head is all foggy, like it’s been stuffed full of cotton.”</p>
<p>“We were ducking behind the stone wall, at the pig farm, remember? Well Wilkerson almost caught us by surprise while we were down there. Luckily, I noticed him just in time to grab him before he was able to ambush us. I gave him the old one, two,” Strike went on, throwing two punches into the air, in time with the count.</p>
<p>“But then he pulled a knife on me, and something triggered in you,” he went on, his face blanching slightly. “You bloody flew at him like a wild animal, coiled to strike. You threw yourself onto him so hard, you both went knocking to the ground. You hit your head pretty hard,” Strike told her, his color slowly rising again in his cheeks.</p>
<p>“But he got off way worse. The momentum knocked him down the flight of stone stairs and he broke both his legs, his nose, AND gave him a concussion,” said Strike with something like pride in his voice.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. That doesn't count</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Strike insisted they stay in Falstone a few more days until she was feeling up to driving back to London.</p>
<p>“Honestly, Strike, I’m fine,” Robin huffed as they waited outside the hospital lobby for a cab. “The doctors even said I was fine.”</p>
<p>Strike lit up a cigarette and just nodded at her; wrapping his coat closer to him against the wind.</p>
<p>After a few relieving puffs he drops it on the concrete and grinds out the butt under his heel. “Bloody cold day today, eh?” he asks turning back towards Robin, trying to change the subject.</p>
<p>He notices she’s stubbornly trying, and failing, to suppress herself from shivering, so he stealthily sidles a little closer to her, trying to block the wind with his bulk.</p>
<p>“You want my scarf?” he asks in his thick, deep voice.</p>
<p>Robin looks like she’s going to decline briefly before she nods her head in assent, her sour attitude dissolving as quickly as it appeared.</p>
<p>He stands right in front of her. His large frame towering over her small one.</p>
<p>He carefully drapes the scarf around her neck, and without thinking Strike leans in and kisses her quickly. Right on the lips. It just seemed like the most natural thing in the whole world in that moment.</p>
<p>
  <em>What is it with him and kissing her in front of hospitals?</em>
</p>
<p>Once his brain caught up to his action, his immediate instinct is to apologize, but Robin had already started speaking.</p>
<p>“Oh, come now, Cormoran. That doesn’t count. If you’re going to kiss me, do it properly,” Robin smiled up at him.</p>
<p>Strike smiled back, and leaned in to kiss her properly this time.</p>
<p>And hopefully many other times moving forward.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. What did you want to talk to me about?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After a particularly long day of surveillance on their newest client, The Magician, Robin was glad to be back at Denmark Street.</p>
<p>She walked into the inner office, to her shared desk with Cormoran, dropped her camera equipment on its surface, and shrugged out of her coat.</p>
<p>“Strike!” she bellowed, though the office was clearly empty.</p>
<p>She made her way upstairs to his flat and half knocked-half opened his door without really knocking.</p>
<p>“Cormoran?” she inquired.</p>
<p>“Hey!” she exclaimed excitedly upon seeing him sitting on his kitchen stool. One leg swinging slowly, back and forth, with a cup of tea pressed to his lips. “Sorry I got back so late; The Magician sure enjoys disappearing acts. I got your text, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, rummaging in his cupboards for a mug so she could pour herself some tea and join him.</p>
<p>“Oh, you know,” Strike started, gently putting his teacup down and grabbing her hands so she stopped rummaging and looked at him. “Just that I love you, is all.”</p>
<p>She smiled wider than she ever thought possible, she made her way over to him, wrapped him in a soothing hug, and whispered “I love you too” into his ear.</p>
<p>It’s good to be home.</p>
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